


Postgame Rituals

by goalielove43



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Clothed Frottage, Columbus Blue Jackets, Coming In Pants, Confessions, Figuring Things Out, Frottage, Hockey Bubble, Hug Your Goalies, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, NHL RPF, postgame rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25961761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goalielove43/pseuds/goalielove43
Summary: He doesn't mean anything by it, at least not anything…much. He's happy, that's all there is to it. When they win and he's been in net, it just feels good to know someone's so damn happy with him that they'll catch him – in full goalie gear – flying through the air. That's it. The sum total of what he means by it.The thing is, he's pretty sure it means a little more than that to Nick.
Relationships: Nick Foligno/Elvis Merzlikins
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	Postgame Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Those hugs? Yeah… those hugs ♥

He doesn't mean anything by it, at least not anything… _much_. He's happy, that's all there is to it. When they win and he's been in net, it just feels good to know someone's so damn happy with him that they'll catch him – in full goalie gear – flying through the air. That's it. The sum total of what he means by it.

The thing is, he's pretty sure it means a little more than that to Nick. It's the way he holds on, the way he carts him off-ice like he thinks he's captured the greatest thing on earth and will – under no circumstances – let go. It's in his eyes when he stares fondly at him afterward, while they're alone in the hallway for those brief few seconds afterward. The brightness, the light he doesn't see there any other time.

Maybe it's that Nick doesn't get to be this carefree any other time. Maybe it's the light of something childish lighting up his insides. Maybe Elvis is reading this all wrong.

It takes them entering the bubble and their first win with him in net for him to actively try to seek out the truth. He throws himself at Nick and he's captured and held and carted off ice and it doesn't matter that they door's in the way. Doesn't matter that they both can't fit through. Nick tries and Elvis howls with laughter and clings to him like an overstuffed koala until they finally have to part to get through the damn gate. It's impulse that makes him do it again, to just reattach himself and make Nick haul him toward the locker room. It's awkward, it's hilarious, they're all but waddling down the hallway and it's the best thing in the entire world.

Elvis lets go at the door to the locker room because he knows better than to test just how much the boys will let pass them by and how quickly he'll go from being Elvis the King or Elvis the Pelvis or anything else they can come up with to rude jokes about koalas and stuck on burrs and dogs humping legs. He'll stick with what he knows, thanks.

It's sort of grudgingly that he lets go though and he thinks he kind of sees that showing up in Nick's eyes as they part. That same longing for it not to be over so soon flitting across his face before he shutters off once again. 

They shower, change out, make their way back to the hotel and Elvis makes a decision somewhere in there. He had to know if he sees what he thinks he sees. He tells himself it's for science, to find out for sure if he's going nuts, to make sure he's not pissing anyone off. He's also well aware he's sort of lying to himself. He wants to know because he understands now what this inferno in his gut is when he climbs Nick like a tree. He understands he'd deserve every fucking dog humping leg comment in the entire world if the team even knew half of the thoughts that have crossed his mind. Never up front, never forefront, but stuffed far in the backscape of his mental capacities. 

How Nick feels holding him up. How Nick's breath feels against him. Where Nick's hands are and how very aware he is of them even through all the padding. More damningly, how he wants to feel them without padding, even just once.

So he follows Nick toward his room, nudging him when he catches up, jabbing lightly with his elbow. "Got a minute to talk?"

Nick makes a soft sound and nods and Elvis plods along, letting them naturally gravitate toward whatever room Nick chooses. It's unsurprisingly, Nick's own and Elvis is left not having any idea how to start this conversation. It's not exactly one he wants to have. It could all blow up in his face. On the other hand, they're all trapped here and maybe, just maybe, it's the best time to have this discussion. 

He licks his lips and tips his head, scanning the room and then staring out the window. He decides it should be like a bandage. Rip it off quick and hiss instead of whine and pull off every single hair along the way in agonizing detail.

"Your mind ever kind of drift when we do our winning a game thing?"

Well, that was less than eloquent. Also not at all like ripping off a bandage. He tries again, quickly, only letting Nick get his mouth open but no sound come out before he speaks again.

"I mean, like, sometimes there's these thoughts in the back of my mind, you know? Things I kind of drift over and they're… decidedly not hockey."

It's better, but still not what he'd thought he should be aiming for. This time he remains silent though, lets Nick get his words in.

Nick leans back against the dresser and the noise of it makes Elvis jerk his gaze to him and he finds himself staring at him when he speaks. "I get where you're coming from… let me ask you this, are you sure you want to have this conversation? You might not like the answers you'll get from me."

Elvis shrugs, sighs and settles with one hip against the wall, his arms loosely crossed over his abdomen. "I can take it. Wouldn't have brought it up if I couldn't."

It takes what certainly feels like a full minute before Nick speaks and when he does, he sounds resigned, like he thinks the world is going to crash down on him. "I'm thirty two. I've made up my mind in the past year that I'll live as who I am and if that bothers someone, then fuck 'em. If it bothers then league, then fuck them, too." He looks like he wants to spit on the floor but is a little more couth than that. "If you're asking if I feel things two guys celebrating a win probably shouldn't feel… yeah, I do. If you're asking if my mind trips all over itself trying to make it far more than it is, yeah, it does that too."

Elvis manages a quiet, "Sex," somewhere out of the depths of him, his heart beating quick and hard in his chest, his muscles priming themselves for something, anything. He feels that same twinge, that same excitement he gets right before launching himself at Nike out on the ice. It's deeper here, lower in his gut, stirs him in ways he hasn't let it before now. He watches the surprise on Nick's face and then the nervous grin as he snorts and offers, "Yeah, sex."

He takes a second and decides he's twenty six and he'll do whatever he wants inside this room, for at least the next thirty seconds. He shoves off the wall and closes the space between them, puts his hands on Nick's shoulders and murmurs, "We won…" waiting on the usual words to bring the usual open arms, and when they do, he launches himself up off the floor and into Nick's arms, settles in against him, thighs and arms clamped and _feels_. God, he feels. 

Nick's strong under him, all sweat-earned muscles, workout-hardened planes, and warm flesh. He stares down at him and lets those fragmented thoughts in the back of his mind come forward, be the forefront of his thoughts, and he knows he's staring at Nick the way he always does, but that it's also more. Far more.

It's both expected and absolutely not when their lips meet and he groans louder than he means to into it. Nick grunts and they're moving and then he's on his back on the bed and Nick's pressing him down into the mattress, caging him in, and Elvis is clinging to him, heady and needy and restless under him, already rocking his hips. Nick thrusts back against him as they kiss, hands all over one another, exploring, and he thinks for one second maybe they should have talked more about this.

It's only a moment though, because the next second he doesn't give a flying fuck about talking, only about how hard Nick is against him, about how much more he can feel before some stray teammate breaks this up or before either one of them thinks too hard about how fucking stupid this is, doing all of this in a hotel room with paper thin walls and teammates flanking them on all sides.

Nick breaks their kiss and mouths along his jaw and over his Adam's apple and Elvis arches and gasps and lets him work, hips jolting once in a while, his hands busy, working over shoulders and arms, sides and hips, ass and then up to Nick's hair and then back to his shoulders to use as leverage while he fucks up against him, panting. He's gonna bust in his fucking pants like a teenager and the thing is, he doesn't really care. The hard cock against his own is something he hasn't even let himself dream of. The beard rubbing him raw along his neck is heaven.

"Finally," Nick grunts against his shoulder and then he's there, heavier against him, thrusting with more purpose, hovering over Elvis and they're staring at each other and Elvis can barely keep watching Nick, because he looks like the sun. He's so stunningly bright, utterly brilliant, and nothing about him is closed off and honestly, Elvis thinks this is what Nick hides away every time he shuts down after their ritual. He arches up against him even more and whimpers out, "So hard," as encouragement and it works. Nick's hips jerk and for a few seconds the bed springs actually protest, and then Nick's face is stuffed against the juncture of shoulder and neck and his grunt is still louder than it maybe should be. The way he shudders, Elvis knows he's cumming, that somehow, some way, he wasn't the first one to shoot off in his pants.

"God, show me," he pants out, arching and rubbing under Nick, hoping he'll unfasten his pants and peel down his underwear and show him the mess he just made in them. 

Nick settles back on his heels and starts to open his pants. Elvis fumbles his own open and jams his hand inside to start stroking as he watches him undo his pants and then show him his sticky cock, the glistening dampness of his prick and his underwear. Elvis grunts, utterly unable to last just seeing Nick's hard dick and the evidence of what he just did against him and he humps up against his own hand, grunting as he starts to unload, pulling his underwear down after the first spurt, letting it empty over his fist and down against his belly, staring at Nick and how he's watching him.

Nick looks like he's definitely enjoying what he's seeing and Elvis grins at him, arches and shows off for a second, letting him see how hard he still is, how he's straining and enjoying himself. He makes the most surprised noise when Nick ends up against him, kissing him, hands tangled in his hair, their damp mess smearing between them, and he arches into it and then sighs happily. 

It's this sort of thing, he thinks, that he didn't let his mind wander into all this time. He's been on the verge of it for what feels like eons. Now that they're here, all he can think is that this is another new ritual. One they'll keep from the boys. This is for them _and only them_.


End file.
